House of Corruption (15 page)

She opened the door, regarding them with a cautious expression. She had dressed as if expecting to go to dinner: a supper gown of olive velvet and satin stripe, trimmed with lace and tied with an embroidered yoke. Her dark hair had been lifted into a pleasant style, fitted with pins shaped with roses. She wore a touch of rouge on her cheeks, and smelled of expensive perfume.

A lovely young woman
, Savoy thought.
Quite a lure for a young man.

“You have a message?” she asked.

“I wonder if we might speak inside,” Savoy said.

“That would be improper.”

“This matter requires discretion,” he said, “as you may be well aware. We are happy to entertain a chaperone. You must have a guardian, a valet, someone?”

“He is not available.”

“I must insist.”

“Call again in the morning,” she said.

She began to close the door. With his free hand, Grant slid a new Colt revolver from beneath his coat. She recoiled. The men moved forward, forced her to retreat, the motion so sudden, so unexpected she did not protest until they had driven her inside.

When she appeared she might scream, Grant extended the pistol and she fell silent. Savoy closed and locked the door. They were in a lavish sitting room with windows facing the river; a dining room branched off to the right with a table set with silver and laced cloth, while a bedroom lay behind double doors to the left. From the ottomans and lamps and decorative wainscoting, the apartment seemed more fitting for royalty.

“Sit,” Savoy said firmly.

“How dare you!”

“Best keep your voice down,” Grant added.

“Where is Miss Lasha?” Savoy said.

“Miss—?” Kiria started.

“Reynard LaCroix’s sister.”

“She was taken on a north-bound train,” Grant said, “a fancy Pullman. With a redheaded woman and some brown men with knives.” He motioned toward the hole in the shoulder of his coat. “Made sure I didn’t stay aboard.”

“You met with Monsieur LaCroix,” Savoy said.

“How did you—?” She stopped and took a deep breath. “You have me at a disadvantage. Saturday morning I awoke to find my valet and my servants gone, my private car taken. I contacted the authorities, but they have done nothing. If my retinue did head north on a Pullman, then they probably make for Boston.”

“Why?”

“My steamship is docked there.”

“Why would they leave you?”

Her eyes narrowed. “You are Professor Savoy.”

“Yes.”

“My valet mentioned your name.”

“He did, did he?” Savoy asked, glancing at Grant. “It is concerning your valet we meet in these circumstances. If you know who I am, then you know I am a close friend to the LaCroix family and fully aware of Reynard’s...shall we say,
gifts
. I must know the nature of your appointment.”

“That was between he and I.”

“No longer.”

“Ask Monsieur LaCroix,” she said.

“I cannot,” Savoy said. “Your valet nearly killed him.”

Her expression changed. “Edward?”

“Allow me to be frank,” Savoy said. “Miss Lasha has been abducted by your retinue. Two of Reynard’s employees are murdered. Would you like to explain this to the police? The constabulary is close.” A telephone hung on the adjoining wall—a luxury—and Savoy moved as if to use it.

“Wait.”

She took a deep breath, eyes glancing at Grant’s pistol, and proceeded to rehearse her offer and Reynard’s refusal. She spoke of her father, how he both suffered the same curse and sought a cure. Savoy, in turn, told all he cared to reveal of their showdown in Metairie Cemetery. He spoke with assurance as to the more extraordinary details, especially the astounding nature of her valet. She listened, rigid, the color in her face nearly spent.

“You are lying,” she said.

“If only that were true,” Savoy said.

“This is absurd. Impossible.
Ridiculous
.” She glanced at Grant again. “My men are natives of my homeland, dedicated to my care and security. I trusted them with my life. Edward Tukebote has served my family for years.”

“There must have been something odd about him,” Savoy said.

“Nothing.”

“And Friday evening?”

“He fulfilled his duties, then pursued personal matters.”

“He would have given you his itinerary.”

“I trusted that he could manage his own life without my meddling,” she said curtly. “Saturday morning, I discovered him gone, my  retinue with him. I spoke with the desk, with the police, nothing. He has disappeared.”

“What of his effects?” Savoy asked.

“Nothing,” she replied. “He took everything.” She hesitated. “He may have more in storage, but there is no guarantee. We cart a good deal of luggage.”

Savoy stood. “Take us there.”

“Why should I do anything for you?” she said. She focused her anger on Grant. “And stop waving that thing in my face! Call the police if you wish. What would they say to the Butcher of Chalmette? I’ve seen the newspaper. There was a very good likeness of you on the front page. If you mean to kill me, then do it now and be done with it.”

Grant hesitated. “No, ma’am.”

“Threatening a woman...you should be ashamed of yourself.”

“We’re not going to hurt you.”

“There is a pistol at my heart!”

“Look.” Grant popped open the cylinder. “See? It isn’t loaded.”

Her eyes narrowed into angry slits. She slapped Grant across the face with a resounding
crack
. He took the blow, saying nothing, as red spread across his cheek. She considered them both with a tight jaw.

“Your storage,” Savoy said.

Kiria led them downstairs. Savoy thought certain she would reveal them at many points along the way, especially when she collected the storage keys from the concierge. To her credit, she said nothing.

She led them outside behind the hotel, past the stables, and down the back alley to a line of large sheds. Unlatching the padlock of the largest, she opened the gate to reveal a mountain of wooden crates, casks, locked trunks, and at least three traveling wardrobes. They walked inside; Savoy lit an oil lantern from the wall, illuminating numerous unmarked crates with no visible manifest. Kiria’s cursory glance revealed she knew little what she might find.

“Edward kept the inventory,” she said. “He is fastidious.” 

Savoy gave her the lantern and removed a crowbar from the wall.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“If your valet is so organized,” Savoy said, “why are those crates in the center so
dis
organized?” Indeed, crates had been sloppily moved aside as if some, deep in the center, had been removed. The surrounding stacks had not been replaced. “We forced your valet’s hand, so he left town very quickly. There must be something here that might provide insight.”

“There is nothing.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

He pried off the lid of the closest crate. She started to protest then relented, biting at a fingernail, as the men rifled through her supplies, regarded every stamped name and opened box. Most contained clothes upon clothes upon clothes, bedding, canned food, furniture, tools and other provisions. Savoy’s face beaded with sweat as he pulled free another crate full of fancy dresses.

“I did say there was nothing,” she said.

“Interesting choice of words.” Savoy smoothed a hand over the small of his back. “There is nothing here that belongs to Mister Tukebote?”

“You smell that?” Grant asked.

Savoy inhaled. He caught the dull stink of manure in the alley, the smoky breeze, the smell of cedar and sawdust and mothballs. As he walked toward the back of the shed where Grant stood, he inhaled—now he too smelled the faint miasma of rancid oil, the same where poor Mr. Burlington’s body had been cached. The men moved a stack of banded trunks to reveal a long, unmarked crate. It was the heaviest of the lot, and he and Grant strained to push it to one side.

“What is this?” Savoy asked.

“I do not know,” Kiria said.

With the crowbar they pried open the lid. Inside lay a rectangular glass tank, at least six feet long and three feet tall, fitted with riveted iron strips. Pale green liquid moved inside, like seawater in an escape artist’s bizarre aquarium. A pale, blubbery shape bobbed to the top and sloshed against the glass.

Kiria gasped.

“I’m beginning to understand our Mister Tukebote,” Savoy said. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and covered his mouth. With the lid open, the stink redoubled. “It all makes sense in a perverse sort of way. This creature, this
penanggal
, described as a vampiric head and entrail, has been described as using multiple husks to walk among the living. A body-stealer. Have you heard such stories amongst the locals of Borneo?”

Kiria nodded. “Horrible.”

“I submit Edward Tukebote and the Lady of Chalmette are, in fact, the very same creature. Our poor Mister Burlington’s body also seems to have been used for a time, if only to manipulate events in its favor. I would not be surprised it has access to even more hosts at his, her—
its
—disposal.”

Savoy reclaimed the lantern from Kiria’s hand and drew the light closer. Inside, the pale body of a nude woman floated in the glass tank, bobbing like a pickled curiosity in a back-alley sideshow.

A body missing its head and spine.

14

The Next Day

“Has there been any word?” Savoy asked.

Eleanor Quibb regarded him as he stood before the front door of LaCroix Manor, his notebook tucked under his arm, his carpetbag at his feet. His buggy and horses waited in the driveway, while Kiria stood at the base of the stairs as if trying not to be noticed. At this she failed; she wore a pearl-ivory dress with high collar, her hair hidden beneath a wide brimmed hat. Grant was spared the housekeeper’s wrath, having remained at the City Hotel to mend.

“He is not here,” she said curtly. She had been crying. “The police have come twice already. I know about poor Lasha, so don’t bother asking.” She started to close the door. “Now good day, sir.”

He placed a foot just inside. “Do you know where he might be?”

“No,” she said. “Now remove your boot.”

“Any friends or places he might frequent?”

“I would have told the police,” she said. “Now turn right ‘round and go home, Mister Savoy. This dreadful business started with your arrival, so your leaving may improve things. Poor Renny’s never glad to see you as it is, and you addle poor Lasha’s head with your ramblings. I’ll be damned why you come along at all.”

Savoy frowned. “He told you this?”

“He did not have to,” she said. “I know that boy like my own.”

“Even so,” he said, “I hope you can…”

“We’ll manage this ourselves.”

“But if I could just—”

“Gordon,” she shouted in the direction of the stables along the west side of the manor. “
Gordon!
” She focused on Savoy. “You are done here. Kindly step off this porch right this instant, or my husband will see you personally off. He was a prizefighter in his day, so don’t be thinking he can’t handle your lot. If I’d my way, I’d never see you around here again with your bloody—!”

“Now, now, Eleanor,” came a voice.

She froze.

“There’s no reason to be rude.”

Reynard stepped down the stairs to the foyer, dressed in clean clothes and shoes, hair washed and smelling of cologne. He wiped his face from a towel around his neck, removing traces of shaving foam, his skin ruddy and smooth. He smiled as if nothing unusual had happened; indeed, Savoy noted, he appeared almost manic in his energetic gait and cherubic skin.

Reynard rose up behind Eleanor and wrapped an arm around her stunned shoulders. She looked at him as if upon a ghost, so dumbfounded was her expression that he laughed. She burst into tears. He squeezed her affectionately like a father humored at the gentle emotions of a child,

“Where have been, you thoughtless boy?” she asked.

“Did not mean to frighten you,” he said. “I’ve only just arrived.”

“But poor Lasha,” she said, sniffing.

“I know all about it,” he said. “We’ll get it all sorted out.” He glanced at Savoy. “Just a terrible misunderstanding, am I right?”

Savoy nodded, no voice in his throat.

“But that dreadful business with Mister Burlington,” she continued. “Horrible. The police have been asking about you, where you were, about poor Mister Tourney and…”

“Would you do me a favor?”

“Anything.”

“Kindly whip up a spot of tea and your famous scrambled eggs.”

Eleanor pulled away. “Eggs?”

“I’ve quite an appetite.”

“You wander in like a cold breeze,” she started, her voice like flint, “with nary a word…and now you want
eggs
?”

“With jalapeños, if we have any left.”

She huffed. “Would his majesty prefer toast, or scones?”

“Surprise me.”

She started to say more, huffed again, and embraced him in her arms like a grandmother. He squeezed her back and, wordlessly, encouraged her toward the kitchen. She left, sniffling. When she was gone, Reynard’s smile faded. Clearly his lighthearted façade was intended for his housekeeper’s benefit. The two men considered one another for a long and awkward moment. He did not invite Savoy in, and Savoy did not request it.

“Are you…are you well?” Savoy finally asked.

“Fine enough,” Reynard said.

“But how did you…?”

“Where is my sister?”

“On a train. Bound north.”

“Where?”

Kiria Carlovec walked up the steps to join them on the porch. She came quietly, her voice conciliatory, but when Reynard recognized her he gazed as incredulously as Savoy gazed upon him. She offered a wan smile. “My steamship is docked in Boston,” she said. “We can assume they have taken your sister there.”

“What the
blazes
is she doing here?” he demanded.

“Reynard,” Savoy said.

“Please,
monsieur
,” she started, “if I can but—”

“Get out.”

“Allow her to explain,” Savoy said.

“She is the cause of this,” Reynard said.